


The Only Tree in the Forest

by Shey, Twisted_Mind



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - No Hale Fire (Teen Wolf), Child Neglect, Child Stiles Stilinski, First Kiss, Kidnapping, M/M, Pre-Slash, Spark Stiles Stilinski, The Hale Family (Teen Wolf) Lives, Warning: Kate Argent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:06:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22688965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shey/pseuds/Shey, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twisted_Mind/pseuds/Twisted_Mind
Summary: Five times Stiles saved the Hales + One time Peter saved him back
Relationships: Cora Hale & Stiles Stilinski, Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 439
Kudos: 2023
Collections: Steter Valentine's Exchange 2020





	1. September 2005

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gryvon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gryvon/gifts).



> For gryvon, who asked for "Young!Stiles saves the Hale family from the fire."
> 
> I hope you like where this ended up! The length got a little bit out of control, but by now no one should be surprised. Thank you to SpookyMiscreant for organizing this!
> 
> My endless gratitude to Twisted_Mind, who was wonderful enough to save me from the hole I was digging, and then keep me from repeatedly jumping back into it. You have no idea how much I appreciate your hand-holding, enabling, plot-fixing, and beta-reading! <3 <3 <3 
> 
> And a million thank yous to Nightwalker, for putting up with me and my rambling, and forcing me to sit down and write (all for a fandom you aren't even in!). 
> 
> Additional warnings in the author's notes at the end of each chapter. None for this chapter.

1.

September, 2005

Strobe lights paint the trees in flickering red-white, like some kind of unnatural lightning storm. First responders move in flashes of sharp clarity, then dip to muddied darkness in time with the pattern. The clearing is packed, nearly every emergency vehicle in Beacon County scattered across the lawn, but their lights can’t overpower the orange cast of the flames.

Peter leans against a police car and watches his home burn.

The library window gives way with a shower of broken glass. Fire licks across the frame, and he forces himself to bear witness as hundreds of years of history and lore crumble into ash. The pointed leaves on the big pecan tree curl from the heat, embers glowing crimson where living green meets the charred edges. A section of the roof falls in with a spectacular crash, and he grits his teeth. That’s the twin’s bedroom. Or, it was. He breathes, and counts the pack bonds in his head. Eleven. Eleven solid, glowing tethers.

He searches out their soot-stained faces. Talia and Richard, giving their statements to the police. The twins are held tight against their parent’s chests. Cora is next to them, her small hands clinging desperately to Richard’s belt. Dawn and her family in the back of the ambulance, his sister’s human son needing more treatment than the others. 

Derek is on his way, being driven by a police officer. Thank God he stayed late at school for some kind of event. Laura is at college and more difficult to feel. Peter's brother Andrew has borrowed someone’s cell phone, and is trying to get their oldest niece booked on a plane home.

Home, or wherever they end up after this. Arrangements will need to be made. Where they’re going to sleep, food, toiletries, clothes for tomorrow, and most importantly, the hunt for whoever did this. Peter needs to start a list, but his concentration is shot, his focus is failing him. He wants to howl in frustration.

The boy who saved them hops up to sit on the police car trunk, then over-balances and nearly slides back off again in an uncoordinated tumble. Peter’s hand flashes out to grab his oversized sweatshirt and haul him upright. It's the only thing that keeps him from going ass over teakettle into the gravel. 

Their eyes meet for the second time that night, and Peter finds himself in a suspended moment, locked with the serious, whiskey-bright gaze. 

He can still feel the reverberation of the mountain ash circle breaking. The rush of jubilation mixed with despair. His pack was burning, suffocating. He didn’t know if it was a rescue or another trap, if a hail of wolfsbane-infused bullets would be waiting when they stepped outside. Then, a young boy flung open the door, and wide brown eyes met Peter’s blue. 

Now, those eyes glance down at the fist gripping his shirt, and the moment is broken. They’re out. They’re safe. He can breathe.

Peter lets go and folds his arms across his chest. He should attempt damage control, like his alpha ordered. They’ll need the boy’s story to match the one Talia’s telling the police. Peter doesn’t expect it will be difficult to manipulate someone so young, who’s probably traumatized from everything that’s happened tonight. 

“Clumsy little thing, aren’t you?”

The kid grins. His response is quick, sharp and not at all shaken. “My dad says they’re gonna put ‘it was an accident’ on my tombstone.”

Peter’s lips twitch up, bemused despite himself. “How often do things happen to you by accident?”

“I’ve got interesting luck.” Peter’s not sure why that feels like the understatement of the decade.

“We were the lucky ones tonight. I don’t know what would have happened if your shouting hadn’t woken us up.” He aims for a middle ground between thankful and firm, but isn’t sure he hits it. He needs this kid to agree with him, to believe that sleep was the only thing trapping them in the house.

The smoke is thick in the air, kerosene and wood, noxious plastic and hot metal. The steam from the fire hoses roars against the still raging flames.

The boy’s face is guileless, his natural scent indiscernible under the bitter tang of burnt lumber. He taps his fingers on the metal cruiser trunk in an uneven rhythm. “Don’t gaslight me, Peter.”

Peter almost does a double-take, and wonders where exactly a child heard that term. And how he so quickly saw through what Peter was going to attempt. “I wouldn’t dare,” he murmurs. Time to regroup. “I imagine your father would like to know where you are right now.”

The boy blinks at Peter, suddenly the picture of confusion. It a complete one-eighty from seconds before. “I’m obviously at a sleepover.” He tilts his head and the expression melts into a lopsided smirk.

Peter stares. What a weird kid. He wishes he could read his scent, but the smoke is overpowering. He focuses his hearing instead, listening intently to the rabbit-quick heartbeat. 

There’s a bang, like a gunshot. Then another. Peter jerks, scanning the woods for movement against the darkness. For hunters. He can’t see, can’t focus past the flashing lights. He feels a snarl building in his throat, pulling his upper lip back. They can’t possibly mean to kill them now, surrounded by helpless humans.

“Pecans. It’s just the pecans.”

It takes several painful heartbeats for the words to register. Not gunshots. There are no hunters.

The fire has kicked up a notch, despite the department’s best efforts. Flames are pouring from what was the kitchen window. Some of the branches on the pecan tree have caught, and the ripe clusters of nuts are popping. 

The side of his face is uncomfortably hot. He wants to move away. His wolf wants to whine. He fights to ignore both instincts, to focus on something, anything else. 

Cold hands suddenly cup his cheeks, blocking the heat. "The pecan meat releases steam when it cooks. Builds up pressure against the shell. You have to score them if you wanna keep them from exploding.”

Peter tries to breathe and calm his pounding heart. This kid can’t be older than ten or eleven. Cora’s eleven and she has a few inches on him. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever get the image of her bone-white face and horror-filled eyes out of his mind. She was on the other side of the barrier, and he roared at her, begged her to run. He was choking on smoke, and the terror that any moment the hunters who trapped them would find her. That his last sight would be her tear-streaked face as she was slaughtered. 

He needs to hold it together.

Small thumbs are rubbing soothing circles under his eyes. Somehow, he’s braced protectively in front of the fragile human boy. He can pick his scent out from the smoke now, it’s earthy and pleasant. Like the first drops of rain after a long dry spell. 

“Did you know pistachios can spontaneously combust if they’re shipped wrong?”

Peter’s thoughts stall, because what? “Why do you know that?”

“I have access to the internet, too much unsupervised time, and a best friend that doesn’t say no.” He moves his hands to Peter’s chest and pushes him back gently.

Peter shakes his head and drops the protective stance, sagging against the car again. He refuses to acknowledge his shaky legs as the adrenaline ebbs. There are more important things going on. Their stories need to match before too many questions are asked. 

“Mieczysław!”

Peter glances towards the shout, but is distracted by Derek, who’s climbing out of a newly arrived police cruiser, one with “Beacon Hills Sheriff” emblazoned on the side—safe, thank God—and stumbling toward his parents. The driver, however, is striding in Peter’s direction, his face pinched with a combination of fear and frustration. It’s an expression Peter recognizes, having seen it directed at himself often enough over the years.

Peter glances at the boy. “Mitchy—?”

“Stiles.” He cuts Peter off with a glare at the butchered pronunciation. “Just Stiles.”

“You’re supposed to be at the McCall’s.” The sheriff reaches them and nearly drags the boy off the trunk with his hug. “What the hell are you doing out here?” The boy—Stiles Stilinski apparently—shudders hard before he wraps his arms around the sheriff and hides in his neck. Peter barely makes out the muffled, “Sorry, Dad.”

The sheriff lets him go after a moment, eyes searching his face, hands tight on his shoulders. “You scared the crap out of me. When Tara said the nine-one-one call came from you—” His voice goes thick and he stops to take a steadying breath.

Stiles’ hands are fisted, white-knuckled in his father’s uniform shirt. “I’m sorry. I had a nightmare, and everyone says exercise helps you sleep.”

The sheriff examines him, eyebrows raised skeptically. “So you rode your bike to the preserve?” The “ _what the fuck?_ ” is clear in his tone. He’s right to question—it’s not as if their house is close to town.

Stiles’ lower lip quivers and big, crocodile tears well in his eyes. “It—” he drops his voice to a whisper, “It was about mom.”

A devastated, exhausted expression flickers over the sheriff’s face and he pulls Stiles close again, one weathered hand cupping the back of his head. “Okay. It’s okay. I’m not angry.”

“I smelled smoke so I—” Stiles lets out a noisy sob, then he peeks over at Peter, eyes narrowed in challenge. 

Manipulative little shit. Peter might be impressed.

“Sheriff Stilinski, I’m Peter Hale.”

The sheriff turns, looking slightly startled to see how close Peter is, now that his whole attention isn’t on his son. He lets Stiles go and steps back, straightening his shoulders and letting a mask of professional sympathy take over his expression. “Mr. Hale. I’m sorry about your house.”

Peter nods, dismissing the condolences. “Thank you, sheriff. We’re grateful it was just the house. Without your son it could have been so much worse.”

“I thought I was crazy, giving him a cell phone so young, but damn am I glad I did.” The sheriff offers a rueful half-smile.

Peter hums in agreement. It hadn't occurred to him to wonder how the boy called for help. “His shouting was what woke my sister and myself. We were able to get everyone out in time, thanks to his quick thinking.”

The sheriff wraps an arm back around Stiles’ shoulders, the anxiety in his expression fading to be replaced by pride. “He’s a good kid.”

Stiles turns clever brown eyes up to his dad and smirks. “Does this mean people will stop complaining I’m too loud?” He’s swinging his legs, feet thumping rhythmically against the bumper. It draws Peter’s attention down to his red Converse. The white rubber toes are scuffed with dirt and soot, the dingy laces tied in big uneven loops.

The sheriff snorts. “Good luck with that, kid.”

After a round of questioning where, bafflingly, the boy supports Peter’s version of events, the sheriff gives Stiles another long hug, then heads over to check in with his deputies. 

Stiles remains sitting on the car next to Peter, shoulders relaxed, legs dangling. He’s more subdued now, watching the fire. It reflects in his eyes, lighting them up in glints of orange and amber. There’s another crackle of burning branches, the crash of a wall coming down. Neither of them flinch. The shouts of the firefighters feel far away.

“Uncle Peter?” Cora appears next to him and presses up against his hip, strong fingers digging into his side. 

He wraps an arm around her. “Hey, Squirrel Girl.” It’s a silly nickname that he hasn’t used in years, but it makes her posture soften a little.

Stiles looks over with a curious half-smile. “You like the Avengers?”

Peter smirks. Given the opportunity, Cora’s wolf would much rather hunt squirrels than use them as her superhero minions. But she does like the comics, even if they started as a joke. Peter will have to find replacements.

Cora eyes Stiles distrustfully, still on edge and defensive. “Shut up, Stiles. Why are you even here?” 

Stiles' smile grows in response. “Should I shut up, or answer? I can’t do both.”

“God, you’re such a jerk. Why are you _here_?” Peter can hear Cora rolling her eyes, but there’s a hint of something else too. It seems he’s not the only one who thinks Stiles Stilinski is intriguing.

He shrugs. “I haven’t got anywhere else to be.”

Cora huffs and rests her head on Peter’s chest. He cards a hand through her messy hair, tugging gently at the tangles. He’s always been close to Talia’s children, but his relationship with Cora is special. Talia frets sometimes over how alike her daughter and youngest brother are. He shuts his eyes for a moment, breathing in her scent and thanking anyone who’s listening that she’s safe.

“Whatever. Squirrel Girl isn’t even an Avenger.” 

“No, but she could be!”

The sheriff reappears then, and herds Stiles back to one of the patrol cars so he can be driven home. The noise is starting to die down and Peter is able to track their conversation over the distance. 

“What were you and the Hales talking about?” the sheriff asks, sounding distracted and only mildly curious.

“Trees mostly. And squirrels.” Stiles scuffs his feet against the gravel as he walks, sending pebbles skittering.

The sheriff sighs, long-suffering. “I thought we were done with the tree fixation.”

“But trees are the coolest, Dad!” Stiles is earnest, excited and more child-like than Peter expected. “Did you know aspens grow in aggregate? They send up clones along the root structure. Clones! Like in Star Wars!” He’s bouncing in place, like there’s too much energy for his little body to contain without movement. Peter is exhausted just watching him.

The sheriff sighs again and steers him into a cruiser, manned by one of the deputies. “You need sleep, kid.” The muttered, “And your meds,” comes after the door is shut.

Cora stares after him, a contemplative frown on her soot-stained face. “That was weird.”

Peter glances down at her. “How so?” And he’s not arguing, because Stiles is a strange kid, but Cora isn’t usually bothered by strange.

“He wasn’t moving. He’s _always_ moving.”

Peter raises an eyebrow, because the boy was literally bouncing in place a minute ago, but he realizes she’s right. When he was with Peter and Cora, when his father wasn’t watching, Stiles was almost unnaturally still.

  


* * *

  


After three weeks of living on top of his family in a hotel suite, Peter will never complain again that their house is too crowded.

The first few days are fine while the pack bonds demand they stay close, but once the immediacy wears off, he feels like his nieces and nephews are living in his pocket. He’s ready to go completely feral.

The rental property Andrew finds for them only has five bedrooms, and an office that will suffice as a sixth, but it’s heaven compared to six adults, two teenagers—Laura has decided to take the rest of the semester off from college—and four kids under twelve packed into a two-bedroom hotel suite. 

He doesn’t say a word in protest when he’s relegated to the office space, relieved to not be sharing a room with his older brother. He loves Andrew, but his already low tolerance for other pack members in his private space is currently in the negative.

They’ve only been in the house a few days when Cora comes home from school with the Stilinski boy in tow. It’s something of an event, since Cora isn’t known for her friendly overtures. Her last official playdate was in first grade, and ended with blood—Derek’s, because that’s just how that boy’s life is—and all associated parties in tears.

The kids dump their backpacks by the door and go flying into the barren rental-property backyard. Stiles is gleefully recalling an incident involving a bully, cafeteria food, and untied shoelaces. He calls it poetic justice. Cora responds in her typical dismissive fashion, but it at least sounds like she’s taking Stiles’ side. She doesn’t suffer fools, something the adults all agree should be blamed on Peter—he’s so very proud.

Peter heads up to his room-slash-office to get some work done before dinner. He’s been reaching out to contacts across the country, in both law enforcement and in the supernatural community. And while he’s heard back from some, there are others that need an additional nudge. 

He’s worried about the amount of time that’s already passed, nearly a month since the fire, with no leads on who tried to burn a peaceful pack, or why. The danger is eating at him and he’s definitely losing sleep over it, but doesn’t feel like he’s any closer to answers. 

Talia can’t think of anyone they might have offended recently. Peter can name a few that would like him out of the way, but none with the balls to burn the whole pack to get to him. He questioned Stiles briefly, under the guise of thanking him once everything calmed down. Peter hoped he could explain what made him bike out to the preserve that night, but Stiles could only offer that he “had a bad feeling,” and nothing more.

Looking for nearby hunters in the time leading up to the fire is another dead end. Even codeless hunters steer clear of Beacon Hills. Talia’s a strong and well-respected alpha, Richard’s formidable as her second, and Peter—if he permits himself a humble-brag—has built a very dangerous reputation as a fixer. Not that their reputations protected them this time.

There was mountain ash around their house. It isn’t exactly something you can pick up at the local hardware store. Deaton—the cryptic bastard—was at least able to give him the names of the west coast suppliers, not that it went anywhere. Most of their sales have migrated online over the last few years, so they’re next to impossible to track. 

Frustrated with his lack of progress, he spends the time before dinner planning visits to a few reluctant allies. When he finally comes up for air his stomach is threatening to eat his spine and the aroma of cooking tells him dinner's nearly ready. Before he hits the bottom of the stairs Talia has him go out to the backyard to collect the kids. Cora could hear him from inside of course, but the optics are always important with guests over. 

Cora and Stiles are crouched in the dusty back corner of the yard next to the shed, heads together, whispering excitedly. Stiles is sketching something in the dirt with a stick, his free hand gesturing in frantic animation.

“Cora, Stiles, dinner.” Peter didn’t exactly sneak up on them, but Stiles yelps and flails so hard that he tips over and lands on his butt in the dirt. Cora rolls her eyes and shoots Peter a dirty look that makes him press his lips together to keep from laughing in her new friend’s face. 

He makes his way closer, curious to see what has them so engrossed. He catches a glimpse of a map, dramatic x-marks-the-spot included, before Stiles staggers to his feet, dragging a ratty sneaker across the sketch in the process.

They’re the same red Converse from the night of the fire, and in the light Peter can see more of the wear on them, the spot the sole is cracked and starting to separate, where the ends are warped from his toes pressing up against them. Peter spends too much of his time listening to his sisters complain to miss the fact that they’re probably half a size too small. His jeans look a little short too, past the point where Talia would be dragging her reluctant children shopping, and Peter wonders if he’s in the middle of a growth spurt.

Peter’s done his research on the Stilinski family, and he knows that Stiles’ mother passed away recently after a lengthy illness and months in long term care. Peter adds the ill-fitting clothing to his mental fact-gathering, along with a child who can sneak away during the night unnoticed, Cora’s reports of attention-hungry behavior in class, and the off-handed comments about having too much unsupervised time.

He smells healthy, just the same dust after rain scent that Peter noticed before, and he seems to have a good relationship with his father. Rather than neglect, it’s likely that the sheriff is struggling as a newly single parent.

“Holy hell, you scared the crap outta me, Peter—um, sorry.” Stiles scrubs a hand against his buzzed hair. “Mr. Hale.”

Peter raises an eyebrow. That’s the part of the sentence the kid is apologizing for? “Peter’s fine. If you call me Mr. Hale, what will you call Cora’s dad?”

Stiles looks dumbfounded. “You’re both Mr. Hale? But Talia—Mrs. Hale’s your sister, right?”

“That’s right.” Peter’s familiar with where this is going, but he decides it will be amusing to let Stiles stumble along anyway.

“But—” Stiles trails off and gestures at Peter, then the house, then the world in general, his face twisting cartoonishly. “That’s not how that works!”

“Richard changed his name to Hale when they got married.” Peter shrugs. It’s common among matriarchal packs, but he can’t exactly explain that to Stiles. 

“Why?” He tilts his head, blinking like a curious pup. Peter carefully doesn’t smile at the mental image.

“I don’t know, Mieczysław, why would someone want to change their name?” He knows he nailed the pronunciation by the way Stiles’ eyes go wide, then narrow, a blush flooding his cheeks.

“I told you. It’s _Stiles_.” He puffs up in righteous indignation, then deflates and ducks his head, grumbling at the ground. “I can’t believe you said it right.” Peter can see the corner of his lips turn up.

“Go wash up for dinner, Stiles.” Peter gets a glimpse of his pink cheeks and pleased smile before Stiles darts past him into the house.

“Yes sir, Mr. Hale!” He calls over his shoulder.

Cora steps up next to him and pinches his arm hard enough to make him wince. “Don’t be an asshole, Uncle Peter.” She jogs after Stiles, calling over her shoulder as her boots thump up the back steps. “I’ll claw your favorite pillow if you make him sad.”

“Language, Cora," Peter mocks as he trails after them. "What would your mother say?”

“It’s not my fault, I’m only repeating the grown-ups!” She ducks into the house, cackling. He hears Stiles laugh as well. Snarky brats, the pair of them.

He decides to bring his concerns about Stiles’ care up with his alpha. One more kid hanging around in the afternoons won’t make much difference to Talia. It’s really the least they can do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come hang out with me on Tumblr. [shey-elizabeth](https://shey-elizabeth.tumblr.com/) I reblog lots of Steter and the occational prompt idea.


	2. January 2006

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thank yous again to nightwalker and twisted_mind for their hand-holding and beta reading on this chapter! <3

2.

January 2006

“Um, Talia?” Stiles asks around a forkful of lasagna. They’re at the dining room table, for a typical Tuesday night dinner. Stiles has given up on formal names entirely, declaring it too complicated now that he knows four "Mr. Hales", and two "Mrs. Hales". Talia had pursed her lips, looking more amused than disapproving, but agreed. 

Stiles is a fixture around the house, occasionally accompanied by his friend Scott, though the other boy annoys Cora enough that it’s not often, thank God. Their rental is a few blocks from the sheriff’s house, so it is easy for Stiles to stay with them until his father gets off of work in the evenings. Which sometimes turns to overnight and the boy camping out on the couch or on Cora’s floor.

Talia’s reply of, “Chew, Stiles,” is automatic, but he does pause long enough to swallow his food.

“Sorry. My dad’s got a weekend shift, so I was wondering if I can stay over?” He’s gnawing on his lower lip, his expression hopeful as he darts a glance towards Cora who’s staring back with big eyes.

Because, of course, it’s the full moon this Saturday, and there’s no way Talia can agree to his request. Peter doubts he even ran it by Cora first. All of the pups have been taught how to turn down friends who want to see them near the full moons. 

“I’m sorry, sweetie,” Talia starts, trying to deny him gently. “It’s not a good time. Can you stay with the McCalls?”

Stiles frowns, lower lip slipping forward in a pout. “I guess.” Peter feels a bit bad for him, it’s obvious the kid doesn’t have many friends, especially considering how much time he spends with Cora. This is the first time he’s actually asked to stay, and being told no isn’t easy for kids.

“Next time, okay?” Talia offers.

Stiles lights up with a delighted grin, like he’s just been promised the newest, shiniest video game. “Next month it’s on a Sunday.”

Talia tilts her head at him. “What is?”

Stiles rolls his eyes, like the answer is oh, so obvious. “The full moon.”

Peter wasn’t aware that a room could _actually_ go dead silent—not for those with supernatural senses anyway. He glances around at the shocked faces of his family and starts to chuckle. Clever boy.

“What do you mean, Stiles?” Talia asks faintly, shooting Peter an absolutely filthy look. Peter rolls his eyes and wonders if she could be any less subtle. And he could help her out, he really could, but he’s been arguing to share their secret with Stiles for a while now, has warned that Stiles is much too smart to stay in the dark for long, and might resent being lied to. Granted, Peter thought it would take him at least a year or two to put the pieces together, but he’s not complaining. The brilliant boy just validated all of Peter’s arguments.

Stiles' response is rapid-fire, the way he gets when he's nervous. “I want to stay and see you. I won’t get in the way or anything. I can even help with Caleb while you’re busy. I’m old enough to babysit now, and my dad thinks some responsibility would be good for me.” It's a flurry of pleading wrapped up in what he’s sure Stiles hopes is a convincing argument.

Peter doesn’t bother to choke down his laughter anymore. He’s not sure how much Stiles has figured out, but he at least knows that Peter’s youngest nephew is human. 

Talia looks like she wants to flash alpha eyes at Peter, but is restraining herself. She can probably feel the rush of his possessive pride through the bond. Peter _likes_ Stiles. It would be a shame to lose him when he could add so much to their pack. Peter’s reaction is probably part of the reason that Talia has been reluctant to reveal their secret, despite owing Stiles a debt for saving them. She hates it when Peter gets justifiably arrogant.

Though actually, Talia’s glare is only increasing, in the way it does when she’s blaming him for something. “Peter.” Her voice holds threads of a warning growl. “What did you tell him?”

Peter lifts his hands in submission, laughter dying down but his smirk still pulling hard at his lips. “Don’t look at me. This is all Stiles.”

“What? He didn’t say anything. Well, he did the eye-thing,” Stiles makes a bursting gesture near his face, that’s apparently supposed to resemble glowing eyes, “the night of the fire, but so did Cora.”

Peter holds back a wince because he wasn’t aware his control was so off that night. He’s relieved that he spoke more to Stiles than anyone else. “Stiles, maybe you should tell us exactly what you think you know.”

Stiles throws him a pout. “Besides that you’re werewolves?”

That statement ends the tense quiet abruptly. Laura and Cora start shouting, the adults trying to talk over them simultaneously. The twins are absolutely shrieking that there’s, “no yelling in the house”. Caleb starts crying. Derek is his usual stoic self, but his eyes are big and locked on Stiles like he might be dangerous. 

Peter meets his sister’s glance across the table and, at her nod, gathers Stiles up and herds him to the back porch. Stiles stumbles to sit on the top step, a mess of skinny limbs, knobby knees, and sharp elbows. Peter settles next to him, then leans back on his hands and stretches his legs out, ankles crossed. Deliberately relaxed.

Stiles looks a little stunned and smells like anxiety, his pulse a rapid flutter. He looks up at Peter and pastes on a brave expression. “Are you gonna send me home now?” He chews at the inside of his cheek and twists his fingers together.

“Talia might decide that’s the best thing to do.”

“Oh.” Stiles’ scent goes sour, and his lower lip wobbles before he catches it between his teeth. Peter can read on his face the number of times he’s been sent home from a playmate’s house, never to be invited back.

“Of course, I’m very good at talking her around.”

Stiles gives him a tremulous smile. “Yeah?” He ducks his head, twitchy fingers picking at a frayed hole in his jeans. Peter really needs to talk to someone about taking him shopping. 

“Yeah.” He reaches up and ruffles Stiles’ buzzed hair, earning a little sigh and the loosening of tense shoulders. “We like you, Stiles. Don’t worry so much.” He squeezes the back of Stiles’ neck—subtly scent-marking—before dropping his hand again. “Now, explain to me how you got from glowing eyes to werewolves.”

Halfway through the detailed evidence report, Peter makes a note to never underestimate Stiles Stilinski. The kid is terrifyingly observant.

He falls silent once he’s out of “werewolf proof”, but keeps glancing at Peter and licking his lips, like he wants to say more but is holding back, possibly for the first time in his life. Finally, he gets the nerve to spit his question out. “Can I see?”

Peter raises an eyebrow and Stiles leans closer. 

“Your eyes.” The hesitance drains away quickly now that the question is out. The kid is excited, wiggling in place.

Peter can’t help enjoying the opportunity. He lets his eyes flare blue and his fangs drop, feels his claws lengthen against the wooden steps.

“Woah…” Stiles whispers, brown eyes huge and awed. He reaches out and pokes Peter’s fang, making him huff in amusement. 

Most eleven-year-olds, hell, most people, would be at least a little bit frightened when confronted by proof of the supernatural. But not Stiles, no. The first thing he does is practically stick his hand in the wolf’s mouth. 

“That’s so _cool_ ,” he breathes, poking again. “What else can you do?”

Peter holds up his hand in reply, palm up, clawed fingers curled loosely. 

Stiles gasps. “ _Awesome_!” He takes hold of Peter’s hand, turning it back and forth, examining his claws from inches away. “Where do they go the rest of the time?”

Peter rolls his eyes and lets his features melt back to human. “Werewolf magic.”

Stiles grins, delighted. “What else?”

And, since Peter gets very few opportunities to brag about being a wolf, he finds himself telling Stiles the basics. And since he’s Stiles, he has five questions for every fact Peter gives him. It turns into a very long, but enjoyable evening.

Talia doesn’t end up letting him stay for the full moon, but Stiles sneaks over in the middle of the night and joins them anyway. Peter can’t remember the last time he had so much fun in wolf form.

  


* * *

  
April 2006

Peter’s looking for Derek—his nephew’s secretiveness is worrying him, though Peter will admit it’s easy to put him on-edge these days. He doesn’t expect to come around the corner and see Derek backing Stiles up against the wall next to the door, a hand fisted in his shirt pinning him there, free hand braced beside his head and boxing him in. Peter has to take a moment to process the scene, because while Derek is positively snarling, Stiles looks calm but intent. 

“If you say anything to anyone,” Derek hisses, lips pulled back, the wolf thick in his voice, “I’ll rip your throat out. With my teeth.”

And, woah, that is so over the line Peter doesn’t think Derek remembers what the line looks like. Talia has been blaming his attitude on a combination of lingering anxiety from the fire, and Derek just being a teenager. Peter no longer cares what the cause is. Before he can interrupt, Stiles snaps back with his own wolf-like snarl. “If there's nothing wrong, you shouldn't hide it. If you don't tell them, I will.” 

Peter allows himself a moment of vindication. He _knew_ something more was going on with Derek. Laura went through a secretive phase—it’s normal for kids who grow up in a house full of heightened senses to crave privacy—but she was never like this.

Derek growls and pulls Stiles away from the wall just enough to slam him back against it. The little pained gasp he lets out makes Peter’s vision go red. 

Before Derek can open his mouth again, Peter drags him off of Stiles and shoves him into the opposite wall. His teeth lengthen and his claws sharpen as he roars in Derek’s face, putting every ounce of pack hierarchy into the warning. 

The nuances will be lost on Stiles, but to a wolf there are equal parts, “you are out of line”, “you will submit to me”, and “wait until your alpha hears about this”. The color drains from Derek’s face and he whines, high and scared, his neck bared and his eyes squeezed shut. 

“Peter.” Richard is there suddenly, his hand on Peter’s arm, pulling him back. “Enough. Go check on Stiles.” 

Peter relents and lets Derek go with a last warning rumble, then turns and stalks over to where Stiles is still pressed against the wall, lower lip caught between his teeth, his forehead creased with pain.

Cora comes skidding around the corner, wide-eyed, drawn by the noise. Talia’s office is sound-proof or she would be here too. Peter wants to growl at Cora for not being with Stiles, but that’s ridiculous and he knows it. Stiles has had free reign of the newly rebuilt house since they moved in. He’s as pack-adjacent as it’s possible to get, and he’ll be a full pack member as soon as he’s old enough to consent if Peter gets his way.

“Derek has a girlfriend,” Stiles blurts, staring the teenager down.

Derek lunges for him and is only stopped by his father grabbing his collar and hauling him back. “Shut up, Stiles!”

Peter snarls again, turning to brace himself protectively in front of his human. 

“Her name’s Kate Argent, and she’s his teacher.” Stiles hesitates, then adds, “I think she knows who set the fire.”

“That’s not true!” Derek is red-faced and his eyes flash furiously, but his father has gone pale. He draws Derek away. 

“Go to your mother’s office. Now.”

Derek jerks out of Richard’s grip, looking betrayed with his furrowed eyebrows and watery eyes. He stomps off, throwing a last, hateful glare at Stiles. 

Peter draws in a deep breath and tries to steady his control. Kate Argent. Kate _fucking_ Argent. Everything about the fire that didn’t make sense, all of the pieces that have been driving him crazy finally click into place.

Stiles’ hand touches his wrist, and Peter focuses on the quick thump of his heart, his petrichor scent, like fresh earth after rain. For a moment he thinks he detects hot metal and wood smoke, but he ignores it. Stress smells like burning these days.

Stiles tugs on him until he turns, then gives him a worried half-smile.

“Are you hurt?” Peter doesn’t wait for a reply, just cups the back of Stiles’ neck and starts pulling the discomfort away, mentally berating himself for not moving faster and preventing this. It feels like bruises. Derek was out of control, but thankfully not enough to cause lasting damage.

Stiles sighs and lets him, eyes sliding shut as he leans into Peter’s space. Peter feels a moment of relief that he doesn’t flinch or shift away. He’s not sure what he would do if Stiles was scared of them.

Cora is hovering, scowling in the direction her brother went. She’s protective of her only friend, and Peter doubts she’ll let this go unpunished. His niece can be vindictive if properly provoked.

Richard steps up next to them and Peter bristles unconsciously. The alpha’s second makes a sub-vocal sound, soothing and warning at the same time. It steadies Peter’s wolf, helps him focus. “Let’s go talk in the living room.”

Stiles’ fingers clench where he’s still clinging to Peter’s wrist and Peter squeezes his neck gently in support. “You’re not in trouble. We just need you to tell us what you know.”

  


* * *

  


Later that night, after a long private meeting with his alpha and her second, Peter finds Stiles sitting on the back steps, shoulders hunched, staring at his feet. Peter brushes dust from the step and settles next to him, waiting out his silence.

Stiles twists the hem of his shirt between his fingers and glances at Peter repeatedly from the corner of his eye. Finally, the waiting stretches past the point that his ADHD can handle, and Stiles breaks. His voice comes out soft and wavery, more upset than he when he explained his suspicions about Derek and Kate to the alpha. “Are you mad at me too?”

“No one is mad at you. Well, except Derek, but that’s his problem, not yours.”

“Cora is. She yelled at me.” Stiles looks young in his too-big hoodie, which is ridiculous because he is young. Peter forgets sometimes between the fearlessness and the moments of wise-beyond-his-years maturity, that Stiles is the same age as Cora.

“Cora’s scared. She’ll be okay once she calms down and has some time to process. You did the right thing.”

Stiles pulls one knee to his chest and starts picking at the loose rubber on the side of his dingy Converse where the sole has cracked. “Doesn’t feel like it…” 

“I know. But protecting the people you care about isn’t always easy, or nice. Sometimes you have to hurt someone in order to keep them safe.”

Stiles eyes Peter speculatively. “My dad says we have rules to keep people safe.”

“We do, but the rules aren’t always enough, are they?” Stiles is familiar with human laws, the sheriff’s very thorough explanation of child predators being what made him confront Derek in the first place. And Talia laid out the basics of hunters and their code. “People like Kate Argent don’t care about rules, and they aren’t trying to protect anyone. You did the right thing, Stiles. I promise.”

“But I hurt Derek, too. I didn’t want to. I just want everyone to be safe.” He drops his chin to his chest with a dejected little sigh. “Protecting people is complicated.”

Peter tries not to smile, knowing it will be taken the wrong way. “Agreed.” He watches Stiles' fingers try to press the crack in his shoe closed, and decides it's time someone did something about the boy’s wardrobe. “We should get you some new shoes. Those are falling apart, and they have to be too small for you.”

Though, oddly, they don’t look too small. He’s in the middle of a growth spurt—Laura teased him about drinking too much milk when she was home for spring break—and Peter’s sure his toes are pressing uncomfortably against the ends by now. 

“They’re fine.” Stiles scrubs at the dirty, scuffed rubber with the heel of his hand.

“Soon then. I’m sure we can find something similar if you like them so much.”

“I don’t want new ones. I—My mom—” He hunches in on himself, starting to smell like misery.

“Oh,” Peter says softly. The sympathy in his chest is unfamiliar. 

“We bought them a little big. She said they would fit for a while.” Stiles is cupping his hands over them now, trying to hide the places where they’re damaged.

“Stiles…” Peter hesitates. This is not the same confident kid that stood up to his nephew earlier. This Stiles is anxious, wounded, and trying to cling to the memories of the mother he lost too soon. “They aren’t going to fit forever. You’re growing up. At some point you’ll have to—”

“I won’t.” Stiles presses his hands hard to the tops of his feet. “They’re going to fit.”

Peter inhales and catches that hint of hot metal and wood-smoke again. He thought he was imagining it earlier. Something that’s part of Stiles’ natural scent shouldn’t come and go like this does. It’s unusual, to say the least. After a minute, Stiles starts to fidget, hyperactivity taking the reins again, and the scent fades until it’s gone completely. Until Peter smells only petrichor and anxious pre-teen. Peter takes in the shoes that shouldn’t be big enough for a kid who’s growing so fast, and wonders.

He has a theory to test. And maybe some phone calls to make.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come hang out with me on Tumblr. [shey-elizabeth](https://shey-elizabeth.tumblr.com/) I reblog lots of Steter and the occational prompt idea.


	3. September, 2008

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic would not exist without Twisted_Mind who is not only the best plot-fixer (SO much plot fixing), brain-storming partner, hand-holder, and cheerleader ever, but also dragged me kicking and screaming through the second half of this chapter (seriously, I wanted to quit so many times, there may have been tears).
> 
> I don’t know if the chapter was just that difficult, or if it’s because I started it in the middle of March when we went on lockdown and the pandemic fried my brain. Probably both. I’m beyond lucky that I had the most wonderful, amazing friend to keep me sane and help me with it!!

2.5.

September, 2008

Stiles has a days-old split lip and a black eye that’s just started to turn green around the edges. He’s sitting with his arms crossed defiantly, pressed shoulder to shoulder with Cora in the high-school front office.

They’ve been in the ninth grade for less than two weeks—Peter thinks it might be some kind of Hale family record. Laura didn’t stir up trouble until sophomore year, and Derek, marshmallow that he is, never once ended up with the dreaded phone call home. Which means the record they’re breaking is likely Peter’s. Though from what Talia said on the phone when she asked Peter to sort things out, their reasons are better than his ever were.

The gist of it seems to be that wheezy little Scott McCall decided it was his One True Calling to play varsity lacrosse and dragged Stiles—whose spatial awareness is arguably broken—along for the ride. Lifelong bully and general all-around asshole Jackson Whittemore had, for some ridiculous teenage reason, taken offense to this. 

One dirty hit during a Friday afternoon scrimmage later, and McCall was in the hospital with a broken collar-bone and the resulting stress-induced asthma attack. Stiles, fearless and lacking in self-preservation, came off the bench and went after Jackson, ending up with an “unintentional” lacrosse stick to the face, a black eye, and a busted lip.

The altercation continued in their shared Monday morning econ class, where Jackson “opened his big fat mouth” and expressed pleasure that Scott wouldn’t be “taking up space” for the foreseeable future. Stiles got in the larger boy’s face again, snarling and spitting, and ended up sprawled across the classroom floor. 

All of which led to Cora _accidentally_ breaking Jackson’s nose and three of his fingers, and threatening him with worse if he came near her people again.

Peter is trying to hide his pride, at least until he finishes convincing the principal not to expel her for excessive violence.

With some fast talking, all of his persuasive skills, and eventually pulling out the “school that hired Kate Argent” trump card, Peter reduces Cora’s sentence to two weeks of suspension and agrees that Talia will look into anger management therapy. In exchange, the principal will, with the Hales’ financial support, bring in a consultant who can train the faculty to identify and prevent bullying.

For a thirty-minute meeting, Peter’s rather pleased with the results—dealing with David Whittemore will be a separate matter, but honestly, that’s what blackmail is for. He’s just wrapping things up with the principal when he sees the sheriff stride into the waiting area. Peter can’t scent him through the glass door, but his expression is tight with frustration as he stops in front of Stiles. Peter makes it back into the main office in time to catch the end of his lecture.

“—a month. No TV, no computer, no phone.” He shoots a glance at Cora. “And no Hales.”

Stiles’ expression twists in a frustrated echo of his father’s, and his scent sours. “But, Dad!”

"We had a deal, kid. You promised you wouldn’t let Jackson rile you up again. You made a decision, and this is the consequence.”

Peter frowns, wondering how the man plans to enforce this punishment when most of his waking hours are spent at the station. Stiles all but lives at the Hales’ these days. 

Stiles and Cora are both making faces like they want to argue, but the sheriff is resolved, immovable—Peter’s seen the expression on Stiles’ face often enough to recognize it. 

Stiles growls, low and so wolf-like that it’s startling. Cora flinches, and it takes Peter a second to realize that it isn’t from the threat, but from the sudden sting of wood-smoke as Stiles’ innate magic flares in response to his emotions. 

It’s still a rare enough occurrence that Deaton is hesitant to train him, and Talia is standing by her emissary for the time being. As much as Peter would like to change their minds, the odd hints of power don’t seem to be causing Stiles any distress, so he’s decided to wait and observe. And possibly slip the boy a few magic books when no one is looking. Never let it be said that Peter Hale can’t play the long game.

The sheriff’s frown deepens at Stiles’ growl, a crease appearing between his eyebrows. “Enough, Stiles. We’ll talk at home. Get your things and wait for me in the car.”

Stiles puffs up, protests welling in his narrowed eyes. His mouth opens, but the sheriff cuts him off with the sharp shake of his head. Stiles trembles for a moment, fighting with his emotions, then grabs his backpack and storms out, shoulders hunched, stress and wood smoke rolling off him in waves. He doesn’t meet Peter or Cora’s eyes. Peter itches to go after him. 

The sigh the sheriff releases as he watches him go holds an entire universe of exhaustion.

Peter steps forward. “Sheriff, a word?”

The sheriff levels Peter with a look that’s probably cowed many a suspect, not that Peter’s bothered by it. “I appreciate everything your family does for my boy, Peter, but his behavior lately—” He sighs again and rubs a tired hand over his face. Peter’s nose itches at the peppery scent of his frustration. “I’m going to ask you all to keep your distance for a while until he and I sort this out. You understand?” 

Peter’s growl lodges in his chest, years of practice the only thing that holds his wolf back and keeps his tone smooth. “Talia would be happy to—” Stiles’ father doesn’t let him finish.

“I appreciate the offer, but if I need Talia’s help, I’ll ask her for it.” His tone is firm and dismissive as he turns away. 

Peter’s wolf is clamoring unhappily at the inside of his skull, and pushing it back makes Peter hesitate long enough that the sheriff steps into the principal’s office and shuts the door behind him. 

That man is a fool if he thinks taking Stiles away is going to improve the situation. Stiles was defending his friend. He should be praised, not isolated. Peter’s lip curls in annoyance, and it’s only Cora’s sudden presence at his side, fingers digging into his arm that stops him from going after the sheriff and explaining a few things.

“You can’t, Uncle Peter. Mom wouldn’t like it.”

He takes a slow breath, letting her presence settle him. She’s right. And there’s no point in pushing Stiles’ father when the man is worked up. Peter will give him a few days to calm down, then arrange something. He looks down at Cora, who’s as on edge as he’s seen her in years. “Ice cream?”

She looks up and gives him a weak grin. “Your consequences are the worst.”

Peter laughs as he leads her out of the office. “Of course. I’m a monster.” 

On the way to the car, they pass Stiles slumped in the front seat of the sheriff’s cruiser. His eyes are shut and his headphones are in. His fingers drum aggressively on the armrest while he chews on his lower lip. 

Peter slows next to the car and taps on the window, hoping to offer the boy a few words of encouragement, but Stiles doesn’t look up. Peter shoots Cora a look, but she just huffs and shakes her head. The unease doesn’t leave Peter until they’re well into their celebratory sundaes, and even then, he can’t keep his eyes from drifting to the empty spot at the table.

  


* * *

  


Stiles is only slightly better at being grounded than Peter expected. He lasts a whole six days before trying to sneak through Cora’s bedroom window, nearly killing himself in the process—fortunately, his hoodie snags on a branch that supports him long enough for Talia to get him down. He’s got a twisted ankle and probably bruised pride. Peter’s just glad he didn’t break his scrawny neck.

By the time Peter ends his work-call—too abruptly, but he can smooth things over later—and makes his way downstairs, Stiles has been herded into the living room. 

He’s sitting with his foot propped up on the coffee table and a gel-pack—kept in the freezer specifically for clumsy, human teenagers—on his ankle. Cora’s perched next to him, drawing his pain as he tries to bat her away.

“God, you’re such a dumbass. You can’t even walk on flat ground, and you thought climbing in the window was a good idea?”

“What was I supposed to do, stand in the yard and whisper-shout until you noticed me? You slept through Coach’s Independence Day speech.” Stiles flings his arms up in frustration. 

“Oh, cause your way worked _so great_.” Cora’s voice drips with condescension. She rolls her eyes and grabs for his wrist again.

Stiles squirms away. “Stop it.”

“No, _you_ stop it.”

Their familiar bickering makes some of Peter’s tension loosen. He pauses where he can observe them, unnoticed.

“Dude, I _said_ I’m _fine_.” Stiles’ heartbeat trips over the lie, and he winces when his flailing jars his ankle.

Cora growls in response, bears her fangs, and doesn’t let up. “Screw you, Stikinski. You look like shit, and you smell like death. You have _lost your ‘fine’ privileges_.”

Now that Peter’s not distracted by the obvious injury, he can see that she’s not exaggerating. Stiles is most definitely _not_ fine _._ He smells like a nauseating, smokey tangle of adrenaline and anxiety. His skin is sickly-pale, and he’s got deep purple shadows under his red-rimmed eyes. If Peter had to guess, he would say the kid hasn’t slept in days.

There’s a worrying tremor to Stiles’ hands as he twists the strings of his hoodie, and he licks at chapped lips over and over in an anxious tick. Under the mess of emotions, he smells like exhaustion and nagging hunger. 

Peter pushes away from the door and heads to the kitchen. Low blood sugar, at least, is something easy to fix.

He passes Derek in the hallway, hovering—Stiles would accuse him of lurking—and squeezes his shoulder. Derek will never admit it, but he’s just as protective of Stiles as Cora is, and doesn’t like seeing him hurt. Over the years, his nephew and Stiles have developed an odd friendship-slash-rivalry that seems to be based around similar tastes in movies and vastly differing opinions on what makes them good.

Derek’s not the only Hale who’s fond of Cora’s best friend. When she’s home from law school, Laura treats him like her pet project, and the twins think he hung the moon. Even Peter’s brother will pull his nose out of his research long enough to ask after Stiles when he hasn’t been around for a while. And that’s saying something because most of the time Andrew can’t be bothered to remember what day it is.

The kid just gets under your skin.

When Peter returns, Talia has taken over Cora’s place on the sofa and her attempts to take Stiles’ pain. 

Cora is up and pacing, grumbling about stubborn humans—she’s never patient with problems she can’t punch into submission. 

Peter leans his hip against the sofa-back and dangles a glass of juice in Stiles’ face.

Stiles startles and stares like he doesn’t understand what he’s looking at.

“If you don’t take it, I’ll drop it in your lap.”

Talia huffs out an exasperated, “Peter,” but Stiles cracks a smile, a hint of sugary amusement curling in the mess of his scent. 

“Jerkface.” 

He takes the glass, and Peter’s wolf rumbles, pleased with providing for the boy it wants to claim as pack. Peter pushes it down through long practice as he rounds the couch and drops into an armchair, kicking his feet up on the ottoman and folding his hands across his stomach. “Ungrateful brat.”

Talia sighs at them and squeezes Stiles’ knee, drawing the last of his pain away. Stiles flinches a little at the touch but tries to hide it by sipping at his juice. “Sweetie, what on earth were you thinking? You’re so lucky this isn’t broken.”

Stiles ducks his head and draws patterns in the condensation on the glass. “I was bringing Cora her homework.” His heart stays steady, but that’s not surprising; he’s always been adept at half-truths, even more so when he learned that werewolves could hear lies. He sighs when Talia waits him out in judgemental silence. “It’s not like I wanted to fall.”

“Aren’t you grounded?” Peter raises an eyebrow at him. “Maybe you should have kept that literal, as well as figurative.”

Cora snorts and Stiles bites his lip to hide his smile. 

Talia gives Peter a quelling look, reinforced by the exasperation she sends down the pack bond, then turns back to Stiles. “Cora told me what happened with Jackson.”

Stiles’ spine stiffens and his hands clench as he immediately goes on the defensive. “He went after Scott on purpose! Just because he hates us.” He looks like he’s about to start vibrating out of his skin with the force of his frustration. His scent goes painfully bitter with ash and something metallic that Peter tries not to taste on the back of his tongue.

Talia’s nostrils flare subtly, taking it all in. She’s probably trying for understanding, but her tone comes out placating. “I’m not defending him, but Stiles, starting a fight wasn’t the answer.” 

“Jackson started it!” Cora interrupts as she clamors straight over the back of the sofa and drops down on Stiles’ other side, shoulder to shoulder in solidarity. “Stiles was just defending the pack.” Stiles leans into her, grateful.

Lips pursed in displeasure, Talia sighs. “Cora, we’ve talked about this.” Peter winces, predicting what she’s going to say before she opens her mouth. “There are rules that I have to—”

“Please,” Stiles begs, then falters like he wishes he could take the word back as soon as it’s out. He rubs his palms against his thighs anxiously.

“Stiles, sweetie, you know I would make you pack right this second if I could.”

Peter keeps his expression neutral but knows his objection is evident to the other wolves in the room. Yes, there are reasons to wait until sixteen to offer a pack bond, but they shouldn’t apply in this situation. Stiles is already theirs. Making it official won’t hurt anything.

“You could. I won’t tell anyone.” Stiles’ shoulders hunch and he clenches his fists hard on his knees. 

Peter knows Talia’s answer already. He was there for the mopey aftermath when she sat thirteen-year-old Stiles down and explained about the politics of it all. Stiles has another year and a half until he’s of deciding age, and the only way around it—for his father to give consent—can’t happen with the sheriff still in the dark about the supernatural.

“I know you wouldn’t, but we don’t always get to control these things. If it came out that I took a child into my pack without permission, it would bring the hunters down on us. And beyond that, your father would never forgive me.”

“But…” Stiles’ lower lip starts to wobble, and his knuckles go white as he digs his nails into his palms. “I’m almost fifteen. I don’t _want_ to wait a whole year for—.” His voice chokes off. Rejection flickers across his face, and Peter’s wolf shifts with agitation.

“Oh, Stiles, I know you’re hurting.” Talia reaches for him, but he flinches back.

“Don’t! You—you just don’t _want_ to be my alpha. Well—” Stiles scrambles to his feet, knocking the ice pack to the floor. “Well, I don’t want you either.” 

Peter winces at Cora’s hitched breath and the sound of Derek’s pulse racing where he’s hiding in the hallway. He knows Stiles doesn’t mean it, is just lashing out in a way he knows will hurt, but it’s still difficult to hear.

Talia’s expression falters before she buries it under something that’s a little too close to her professional mask. 

Stiles’ scent blooms with misery and the salt-tang of tears. “I’m going _home_.” He limps towards the hallway in single-minded determination.

Talia meets Peter’s eyes across the room, her expression resigned. “His father’s at the station and can’t get away,” she murmurs, too soft for Stiles to overhear. “Can you drive him?” 

Peter heaves a put-upon sigh and hauls himself up to go after him.

He reaches Stiles as he struggles to open the front door and wraps a hand under his elbow. 

Stiles trembles with hurt and anxiety, metal and wood smoke. Peter can barely detect the familiar petrichor, and it makes his frown deepen. 

“I’ll drive you,” he says, taking some of Stiles’ weight.

“I don’t need help,” Stiles manages to grit out, but his voice wobbles, alarmingly thick, and his heart stutters over the lie.

Peter pushes down his anger, not at Stiles but at the situation. What a mess. “Alright, sweetheart.” Stiles trips over nothing, but Peter keeps him upright and off his injured ankle easily. “You know, Cora’s not wrong when she says you and gravity are basically incompatible.”

The scent of Stiles’ embarrassment cuts through the rest of the mess. He ducks his head, grumbling about “rude supernatural acrobats” while Peter grins and loads him into the car. 

Peter reaches across to slide the seat back, giving Stiles room to stretch his leg out. As he stands, he swipes a hand along Stiles’ arm, deliberately marking him and checking to make sure his pain stays gone. 

Satisfied, he walks to the driver’s seat. He withholds any more commentary about the miserable lump of boy across from him, just heads down the long driveway and towards the sheriff’s house. 

Halfway there, his attention is caught by a familiar, glowing sign, and he detours to Stiles’ favorite fast-food drive-through. The orange juice he had back at the house won’t tide him over for long. He needs some real food in his system, and as much as Peter sneers at it, this will be quick and filling.

Stiles gives him a look but doesn’t protest when Peter orders Stiles’ usual—the largest burger on the menu, fries, and a shake—and a coffee for himself, because it was nearly midnight when Stiles made his break-in attempt, and Peter’s day doesn’t feel close to over.

Stiles clutches the greasy paper bag in his lap, occasionally sneaking out curly-fries with sideways, guilty glances at Peter for eating in his car. He doesn’t look like he’s going to get fingerprints anywhere, and this whole night feels like a shit-show, so Peter lets him get away with it. 

“I’m surprised you went after Jackson like that.”

Stiles hunches more towards the window. His scent sours, and he mutters, “Join the club.”

“Because you’re usually more subtle.”

Stiles glances over, startled.

“You thought I wouldn’t approve?” Peter snorts and rolls his eyes. “Honestly, that whole family needs to be knocked down a peg. You don’t want to know what dealing with Jackson’s father is like.”

Stiles relaxes a little and digs out another fry. “It’s whatever. Jackson’s not even the problem,” he says around a mouthful of oil-drenched potato.

Peter wrinkles his nose at the lack of manners. “No. I don’t imagine you’re losing sleep over his ability to play lacrosse with a broken nose.”

“And fingers,” Stiles reminds him with a shadow of a grin.

Peter smirks back. Cora will make a lovely enforcer one day. “And fingers.” Peter takes a right, aiming for a slightly longer route to Stiles’ father’s house. “But you _are_ losing sleep over something.”

Stiles fidgets and his pulse picks up, but under the stress and wood-smoke, his base scent floods with relief. He’s desperate to talk about whatever this is. “Yeah. I guess.”

Peter bites his tongue and waits him out. He has years of experience at getting Stiles to talk. Peter can feel him trying. Hears him take a breath to start, then stop again. 

“Is it girl trouble?”

Stiles’ head whips around and he gives Peter a drop-jawed, incredulous look. “What? No!”

“So nothing to do with Lydia Martin? Who happens to be dating the target of your animosity?”

Stiles scoffs and rolls his eyes. “No. I don’t even like Lydia.” His “anymore” is muttered.

“Well, I’m sure it’s not Cora. She would chew you up and spit you out for even suggesting it.”

Stiles rocks back in his seat with a horrified, “Ew, Peter!” He shakes his whole body like he’s trying to dislodge the thought.

Peter hides his grin. “Is it Jackson, then?”

“Oh my god, _no_!” Stiles flails. “Jackson is like—the prissiest, most entitled asshole on the planet. Why would you even—why would I—” He makes a series of gagging sounds, pulling disgusted faces. 

Peter can’t help but chuckle at his antics. “Well, if it’s Derek, I’m afraid you’re going to be disappointed.”

Stiles actually growls at him, bearing his teeth in a little snarl that Peter will never tell him is much too adorable to be intimidating. Peter does his best to look chastised, but the corner of his mouth twitches up anyway. 

“You leave Derek alone. You better not say stuff like that in front of him.” He folds his arms and glares. Peter has a moment of worry that it _is_ Derek before Stiles continues. “It’s not a boy, or a girl, or anyone. It’s just me and my stupid magic—” Stiles chokes on the word and snaps his jaw shut so fast that his teeth click together. The car fills with the acrid scent of panic, and his pulse starts racing.

Peter brakes and pulls quickly to the side of the road. “Hey.” He reaches out and grips the back of Stiles’ neck, squeezing firmly, keeping him from doubling over in his seat. “Slow breaths.” He presses his other hand to Stiles’ chest and rubs circles against the frantic thump of his heart.

Stiles lifts a hand and grips Peter’s wrist, clinging to him. It takes a minute, but he gets his breathing under control, and his pulse slows back to something approaching normal. His voice, when he finally finds it, is thready.

“I’m not crazy.”

Peter blinks at him, baffled. “What?”

“I’m not crazy,” Stiles repeats more strongly. His fingers dig into Peter’s wrist with enough force that it would ache if Peter were human.

“Of course you aren’t.” Something clicks, and Peter has a strange sinking sensation in his gut. “Stiles, I know you have magic. I can smell it on you.”

Stiles’ heart gives a hard thump against Peter’s palm. “You can?” His fingers loosen.

“Yes. It’s completely different from your normal scent, very distinctive.”

“No one ever—I thought I—” His fingers spasm briefly, his words tripping over themselves. “There aren’t like, secret magic boarding schools, right? I don’t want to—to be sent away for years and years until I finally stage an escape in the middle of the night on the imprisoned Thunderbird I befriended, and then have to live in caves in the Rocky Mountains to hide from the wizard council because—”

“Stiles,” Peter cuts him off as his heart rate starts to pick up again. “There are no secret magic schools. And no wizard council that I’m aware of. No one is going to make you do anything you don’t want to.”

“Good. Okay, good.” Stiles finally releases the death grip on Peter’s wrist and slumps back. 

Peter gives the back of his neck a final squeeze before putting the car in gear and pulling onto the road.

“So, I found this book.” Stiles’ shaky fingers start tearing the edge of the paper to-go bag into strips. “In your library.”

“You stole one of my books?”

“I was going to return it. That’s how libraries work, Peter.”

Peter feels something unknot in his chest at snark that means Stiles has to be feeling at least a little better. “Alright, you borrowed one of my books.”

“Right. And it was really interesting. Lots of stuff about nature, and ley-lines and learning to listen to the land.”

Peter knows exactly which book Stiles “borrowed” because Peter was going to slip it to him when he got the chance. “What have you learned?”

“Not to read incantations out loud if I don’t know what they do?”

Peter tightens his grip on the steering wheel and fights to keep his reaction internal. Because what Stiles is implying shouldn’t be possible. Words are just words without training behind them. Or so he thought. “Jesus Christ, Stiles.” He puts every ounce of exasperation he can muster into the statement.

Stiles laughs and relaxes back against the leather seat, a wash of petrichor soothing against Peter’s senses.

Peter breathes it in and feels his wolf finally start to settle.

He gets Stiles back to the sheriff’s house and set up on the sofa with his foot on a throw pillow, the burger and remains of the curly fries in easy reach. Stiles flicks on the TV and starts up a paused episode of some sci-fi monstrosity. 

He only finishes half of the burger before his eyelids are drooping, and it looks like it’s taking concentrated effort to lift the food to his mouth. He nods when Peter asks if he’s done and lets Peter take the leftovers to the kitchen to wrap up. 

When he gets back, Stiles is scrunched down against the sofa arm and tucked into a ball, the injured ankle still propped up safely. Peter sits on the far cushion and checks his pain again, then rests another ice pack over what looks like it’s becoming a rather impressive bruise—the Stilinski freezer was even better stocked with ice packs than the Hales’.

He looks up at Stiles, who’s fighting to stay awake. “Wouldn’t you rather sleep in your bed?

“I’m not sleeping,” Stiles says, his unfocused gaze pointed in the direction of the tv. Or at least, that’s how Peter interprets the slurred mumbling. The end of the sentence is cut off with a jaw popping yawn, and his eyes close long enough that he might be down for the count.

Peter shakes his head, amused, and pulls out his phone to shoot Talia a text. _I’m going to stay and have a word with the sheriff when he gets home. Don’t wait up._

He watches Stiles as he waits for the response he knows is coming. He looks small, all curled in on himself. The purple shadows under his eyes only highlight how pale he is. He smells slightly better—the food helped—but there’s still too much hurt and not nearly enough pack-scent for Peter’s liking. 

Peter would like to lay into the sheriff for the harm he’s caused by keeping Stiles away—for his blindness and ignorance—but Peter’s also smart enough to know that letting loose his opinions won’t get him the desired result. Protecting Stiles is more important than how good it would feel to verbally eviscerate his father.

A few minutes later he’s glad that his phone is on silent when it lights up with a call from his sister instead of the hoped-for text reply. He hits accept, speaking before she can start to lecture. “It’s time, Talia. If the only way to fix this is to tell his father about the supernatural, then that’s what needs to happen.” He keeps his voice low, not willing to risk waking Stiles.

“Yes, my children have made that very clear.”

Peter pauses, surprised and suddenly, fiercely proud. “Did they?”

“I got an earful after you took Stiles home. Cora let me have it, and Derek woke Laura up on the east coast so she could say her piece. I’m apparently the worst mom _ever_.” She chuckles roughly, and Peter can hear the regret and exhaustion in her tone before it firms. The next part is an order from his alpha. “Invite the sheriff to dinner tomorrow. Make sure he says yes.”

 _Finally._

Peter’s wolf surges forward in triumph. There’s relief there too. He doesn’t have to bring up Stiles’ magic—or the realization that Stiles has more magical potential than any of them expected. The boy deserves to be pack on his own merits. He deserves to know they want him for more than just the power that’s growing inside him.

  


* * *

  


The sky is starting to show hints of grey morning light when the sheriff finally makes it through the door. Stiles has shifted a few times over the last few hours, twitching with unpleasant dreams, but he hasn’t woken.

“Good morning, Sheriff,” Peter calls, keeping his voice low.

“Peter.” The sheriff sounds resigned. “Thanks for bringing him home. Sorry it’s so late.” He steps into the room. Peter takes note of the rumpled uniform, the gun still strapped to his belt, and debates just how confrontational he wants to get. 

“No trouble.” He checks Stiles’ pain one more time, then reluctantly moves his arm to drape along the back of the couch. “There’s a conversation we need to have.”

The sheriff’s lips thin and his brow creases. “That doesn’t sound good.” He drops into the chair closest to Stiles, eyes on his sleeping son. He reaches out and gently rubs his hand over Stiles’ hair, exhaustion pulling at the corners of his mouth. “How is he?”

“How do you think?”

Something pained flickers across the sheriff’s face and his frown deepens. “It’s late, Peter, and I’m coming off a double that felt like a triple after your sister’s phone call. Can we skip the games?”

“What part of this looks like a game to you?” 

The sheriff sits back and folds his arms across his chest in a way that’s meant to be subtly intimidating—it’s wasted on Peter. “Oh, I don’t know, maybe the part where you’re here, in my home, with my kid, after I explicitly told you that if I wanted you or Talia to get involved, I’d ask?” 

Peter arches an eyebrow, wondering if the sheriff is being willfully stupid. “So you’d have left work to pick Stiles up, then?” 

The corner of the sheriff’s eye twitches in a tell that Peter files away for later. “I told Talia I was stuck at the station.” 

“Do you not see the hypocrisy here, Noah?” He uses the man’s name deliberately, stripping him of the power of rank. “You need us, but you don’t ask, and when we help anyway because Stiles’s well-being is at stake, you act offended, as if we’ve somehow overstepped.”

The sheriff’s nostrils flare, and his scent turns sour and offended. “I’m his father, Peter,” he starts, volume steadily rising. “I get to decide if your family is overstepping or not, and quite frankly, you are. Maybe I haven’t said—” 

A distressed whimper cuts the sheriff off. Stiles shifts, pushing himself vaguely upright, though his eyes are still closed. “P’ter?”

Peter reaches out and rubs a palm up and down his back. He has to resist the soothing rumble his wolf wants to give. “Right here.”

Stiles grumbles but melts, flopping down with his injured foot over the sofa’s arm and his head on the cushion next to Peter’s leg. He sighs and his breathing evens back out, his heart rate slowing as he drops back to sleep—if he was ever awake in the first place.

Peter leaves his hand between Stiles’ shoulder blades and meets the sheriff’s narrowed gaze, his voice low. “It’s not about what you have or haven’t said, Sheriff. It’s the fact that you’re putting your job before your son and getting pissy that we’ve stepped in when he needed us.” 

Peter can see the sheriff’s temper flaring. His face flushes red and his clenched knuckles go white. He opens his mouth to argue, but Peter doesn’t let him.

“Tell me something, _Sheriff_ ,” Peter drawls. “If Stiles had been in town tonight when he got hurt, who would you have called?” Peter leans back in a show of nonchalance. “And don’t you dare say, Melissa McCall, because we both know she’s just as busy as you are.”

The sheriff’s mouth snaps shut and he takes several slow, measured breaths. “I would have figured something out,” he grits out between clenched teeth. 

Peter sighs, tired of this already. “Just stop. Stop and look at him, Noah.” He runs a careful hand over short-buzzed hair. “Stiles was injured tonight because he wanted help, and he didn’t know how to ask for it. He needs support. He needs family.”

The sheriff looks down at his son, taking in the dark circles and chewed lips, the tightness of his features, even in sleep. His expression cracks, devastation and exhaustion leaking through. “I’m his family.”

“But you aren’t his only family. Not anymore.”

“You don’t get to decide that,” the sheriff protests, but it’s weak at best.

“I hate to break it to you, but we didn’t decide it.” Peter strokes his hand down Stiles’ arm, hiding a smirk when the boy snuggles closer. “Stiles did.”

The sheriff’s shoulders slump and he stumbles back to his chair, sinking down and burying his face in his hands. Peter probably isn’t meant to hear the muttered “fuck” but werewolf hearing.

“I’m not saying you don’t love your son, Noah, because it’s clear you do. We aren’t trying to steal him from you. But there’s more at play here than you realize.”

The sheriff rubs a palm over his face and pinches the bridge of his nose. His eyes are suspiciously bright when he looks at Peter again. “I don’t know what that means.”

“It means there are things Stiles needs and isn’t getting. It means we’re going to help, whether you want us to or not.” He fixes the sheriff with a look that demands agreement. “Come to dinner tomorrow—” he glances at the steadily brightening sky, “tonight. Talia wants to be the one to explain.” 

  


* * *

  


Talia will probably forgive Peter for dropping news of Stiles’ magic like a bomb in the middle of the werewolf reveal—eventually. Stiles might take a little bit more convincing, but really, it was better to get it out in the open all at once. And when the sheriff learned about hunters and started making noise about keeping Stiles safe from the supernatural, Peter knew it had to be done.

He leaves the other adults with their much-needed alcoholic beverages in Talia’s study, and makes his way across the backyard to where Stiles is balanced precariously on his crutches, staring into the preserve. Who knew something as mild as a sprained ankle could take weeks to heal? Peter will never admit it, but he assumed the ice would help more. 

Stiles has a brace, but he’s still walking on two metal sticks for the next ten days—Peter’s convinced he’s going to tip over and cause more damage in the meantime.

He hauls one of the lawn chairs over and gives Stiles an unimpressed, raised eyebrow until he drops down into it. Peter settles on the grass in front of him and lifts the offending limb, propping it up on his own raised knee. 

“I wanna be pissed at you.”

“I know.” He presses his palm above the brace and tugs the tendrils of discomfort away. 

Stiles sighs and slumps further in the chair. He ducks his head, twisting his fingers together. “Do you really think Deaton will train me?”

“If he’s reluctant, I know a least half a dozen other magic users who will jump at a chance to help the Hale pack.”

Stiles’ head lifts and he meets Peter’s eyes with a grin that lights up his entire face. “I’m pack now.”

Peter squeezes his leg and says honestly, “Stiles, you’ve _always_ been pack.”

Stiles blinks and opens his mouth to respond just as Cora and the twins come spilling out of the house and tumble across the yard with excited shouts.

Peter doesn’t mind the interruption.

The twins shove themselves into Stiles’ lap, demanding hugs and cuddles, which Stiles gives, happily accepting their scenting.

When they’re done, Cora squeezes herself into the lawn chair, aggressively rubbing her hand on Stiles’ head and shoving at his arm in some kind of scent-marking/grappling combo-move. “I can’t _believe_ you didn’t tell me you’re magic, you asshole!”

“Language, Cora,” Andrew teases as he follows Derek into the yard, the latter with a zip-lock bag of chocolate-chip cookies leftover from dessert. He gives it up easily when Stiles makes grabby-hands at him, subtly swiping his palm over Stiles’ forearm as he pulls away.

Stiles shrugs at Cora, mouth already full, and offers her a cookie, which she accepts with an eye-roll—Derek really does have a talent with desserts.

In the midst of the children celebrating their newest official pack member, Talia, Richard, and Noah step onto the back porch, still sipping their drinks and chatting like old friends.

Peter looks up and meets Stiles’ eyes, getting another brilliant grin and a cookie shoved in his direction.

“Thanks,” Stiles mouthes.

Peter gives his ankle another squeeze and bites into the cookie. His wolf rumbles with the satisfaction of finally having what it’s wanted for so long. Stiles is officially theirs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for waiting so patiently for this chapter, I hope it was worth it! The next one is DONE so it won’t take nearly as long this time! I hope you’re all staying healthy and taking care of yourselves! Things are hard right now, but they won’t stay this way forever. <3
> 
> Come hang out with me on Tumblr. [shey-elizabeth](https://shey-elizabeth.tumblr.com/) I reblog lots of Steter and occasionally rant about how hard writing is.


	4. May, 2010

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone is having a great month and staying safe and healthy! Happy Thanksgiving to those of you in the US! I'm excited to finally post this chapter for you guys. I hope you enjoy it!!

3.

May, 2010

“Peter, wake up.”

His eyes fly open and he drags in a ragged breath. He’s expecting smoke and heat, flames closing in. 

The cool fresh air is jarring. It’s dark. There are hands on his face, and a body hovering over him. 

He grabs the wrists and rolls. 

It’s only once the person is pinned, hands trapped, his claws at their throat, that he recognizes the scent of petrichor under the hot copper wires and wood-smoke.

Stiles’ eyes are huge and he lets out a shaky laugh, squirming a little. “Um. Hi, Peter.”

Peter retracts his claws and blinks a few times, forcing away the phantom heat searing up his side. His pack bonds are solid, not snapping and burning. There’s no thick, choking smoke, no inescapable flames.

It starts to filter through that he has a teenager pinned to the mattress, hands above his head, body trapped by Peter’s weight. A teenager who definitely isn’t supposed to be at the house tonight, much less in Peter’s bedroom. 

He growls softly. “Stiles.” His voice feels like gravel and he swallows around it, watching intently as Stiles’ pupils expand and his tongue darts out to wet his lips.

Peter’s wolf wants nothing more than to bury his face in Stiles’ neck and scent him vigorously, to remind himself that his pack is alive and not burning. He doesn’t hesitate long before he lets the wolf win, presses his face to Stiles’ throat, and breathes him in—warm sun on damp earth and the hint of long-forgotten ash. 

Stiles lifts his chin in response, inviting him closer. Five years in close proximity to wolves means he doesn’t even startle at the scenting.

After a moment that doesn’t feel long enough, Peter releases the boy and rolls to the side, forearm draped over his face. He takes a few more slow breaths and tries to sort through the mess of emotions and adrenaline the nightmare left behind. “What are you doing here?” 

Stiles sits up with a rustle of sheets. “I need your help.”

“At,” he lifts his arm enough to see the clock, “one in the morning?”

“Well, midnight felt too cliche.”

Peter drags a hand down his face and rubs his eyes, then glances over to Stiles, now cross-legged next to him on the mattress. It’s the middle of the week, and Noah’s on days. Stiles usually likes to be home when his dad is.

“Why are you _here_ , Stiles?”

“I need a Hale, and you’re my favorite?”

Peter raises an eyebrow at him. “Cora’s your favorite.”

Stiles gives him a lop-sided grin. “Cora’s not as a big fan of magic as you are.”

Peter sighs and throws his arm across his face again. "You liquefied her stats homework." 

“That was an _accident._ ”

Stiles has been thriving under Deaton’s magical instruction for the last year and a half. His accomplishments are mostly small things, mixing herbs, and manipulating objects that have their own inherent magic. He’s not strong enough for more than that yet, but Deaton thinks he’ll get there. That he might even be a candidate for emissary when the druid retires. 

Despite that, Peter isn’t interested in being woken up for the umpteenth time because the little insomniac wants to try a new magical experiment. Last time resulted in Peter needing to buy all new towels. He’s putting his foot down, for once. "Go to bed, Stiles."

“No, no. Come on, Peter.” Stiles grabs his hand and drags it down again, despite Peter’s grumbled reluctance. His voice goes quiet, serious. “This is really important.”

There’s intent behind his tone like Peter hasn’t heard in years, and maybe it’s just the lingering nightmare, but it makes his thoughts jump to the little boy in the ratty red sneakers. Too cold hands cupping his cheeks, and embers like crimson fireflies drifting through the night air. He pushes himself up to lean against the headboard, looking Stiles over again. 

He’s pale, deep shadows below his wide eyes that say he hasn’t slept in days. His hands, normally fidgeting with energy, are tense and still, clutching Peter’s wrist. Earthy petrichor is twinned strongly with the metal-and-smoke scent of his magic.

“I’m listening.”

Stiles sighs in relief and all the tension flows out of him. “How much do you know about wards?”

  


* * *

  


They start at the edge of the property, Peter still groggy with sleep, and Stiles bundled up in his warmest layers, even though they’re well into spring. Strong magic makes him cold, he explains, especially his hands and feet. The layers at least give him the illusion of warmth.

“The first time Deaton let me try a real spell—last summer—I had to blast the heater all the way home.” He laughs, self-deprecating. “Then I slept for seventeen hours.”

Peter frowns. “Are you sure you’re ready for this? Even if the wards are weaker than they used to be, renewing them takes power. Deaton brought in help last time.”

Stiles waves aside the concern, fingers brushing against trees as they pass. Peter isn’t sure what he’s looking for exactly, but Stiles insists he’ll know it when he sees it. “That’s cause Deaton’s a druid. He’s good with herbs and magic items. I’m different. I might just have a little spark, but I have a lot of belief. Wards love that shit.”

Stiles’ fingertips settle on a tree and he pauses, focus going distant. 

Peter looks up along its length. It’s a larger trunk but otherwise doesn’t seem much different than the hundred they’ve passed so far. 

“This one,” Stiles murmurs, then drops to his knees on the spongy ground and starts to pull materials from his backpack. 

Peter takes a moment to scent the air and listen for anything that might cause them trouble, but it’s only a precaution. The preserve has always been a safe place for Hales, even with old wards weakened. 

Stiles’ scent is interesting here, hardly discernible from the deep loam of the forest. He lays out a small knife, a handful of herbs, and a mortar and pestle. 

Peter has been around magic often enough to keep quiet and let him concentrate. He’s quickly reminded that Stiles isn’t a typical magic user when he immediately breaks the silence.

“Did you know trees can talk with each other and share resources through an underground network of soil fungi? It’s kinda like the internet, only for plants.”

Peter’s lips quirk up at yet another random tree fact. Stiles never did outgrow that interest. “Is that what you’re tying the wards to? The fungi-net?”

Stiles laughs. “No, the fungi aren’t stable enough to maintain them. I’m using herbs to carry the magic, bark from the tree to anchor the spell, and pack blood from you to create the connection.” “Why Stiles, don’t tell me you brought me out in the woods in the middle of the night to do blood magic. Isn’t that a little dark for your teacher’s taste?”

“It’s not dark!” Stiles bites out, scowling up at Peter. “Blood has strong properties. It’s a good carrier. That’s like saying a werewolf bite is blood magic and inherently dark. Deaton’s just close-minded and stubborn and—” 

Peter rolls his eyes, and Stiles huffs when he realizes he’s being baited. 

“And it’s not like it has to be blood. It just needs living fluid, freely given. It could be something else. Like—” He stops abruptly, then flushes and looks intently back to his herbs, seemingly focused on grinding. 

Peter grins. He can’t help himself. “Like what? I suppose the strongest freely-given living fluid would be semen?” 

Stiles makes a little “meep” sound, the flush darkening the back of his neck and the tips of his ears. “Obviously.” His voice cracks and Peter detects the spice of his arousal twined with embarrassment. Teenagers are so easy. “But I didn’t think you’d been interested in jacking off on a bunch of trees tonight.”

Peter laughs and decides to take pity on him before he ruins the spell out of sheer mortification. “Maybe next time.”

Stiles wheezes softly and clutches the mortar. 

Well. Maybe not that much pity. Peter’s never seen him flustered like this before. It’s adorable. He chuckles and drops a hand to the back of Stiles’ neck, palm cool against the flushed skin. “Breathe, Stiles.”

Stiles sucks in a breath and bats his hand away. “Asshole.”

Peter steps back obligingly and crosses his arms, observing as Stiles gets back to work. 

He scrapes a square section of bark from the tree and adds it to his herb mixture, babbling the whole time. His commentary swings from the types of trees in the preserve, to magical creatures he’s been studying, to places he hopes to visit someday. He doesn’t go quiet until he needs to carve the sigil into the wood.

Peter holds out his hand when prompted and hardly feels the shallow cut Stiles makes on the outside of his palm. It’s only deep enough for a drop to fall into the pestle before it knits closed again. 

Stiles mixes the paste, hums out a few words, and presses the poultice to the marks he carved. There’s a flicker of light, but it fades quickly. When Stiles takes his hand away the tree trunk is healed. Like nothing happened. 

Peter is suitably impressed.

With a nod of satisfaction, Stiles gathers his materials and hops back to his feet. “One down, ten to go.”

Peter doesn’t know why he expected Stiles to do less. Eleven anchor points will make for exceptionally powerful wards—five is more common, seven less so. 

It’s going to be a long, draining night for both of them. 

By the time Stiles finishes the ninth anchor, he’s moving slowly, his typically infinite energy waning. He yawns as Peter helps him to his feet, then leans against his side, with a sigh. 

Peter’s starting to doubt the intelligence of this plan. “I should have stopped you at seven.”

Stiles is a little gray around the edges, and his eyes are half-lidded. “I don’t like that number, Eleven will be better. I’ll be okay.”

Peter keeps a hand under his elbow until he’s steady, reluctantly letting go when he pulls away. 

Stiles straightens his shoulders and continues his trek to the next tree.

He’s shaking when they’re finally done, but he grins up at Peter, triumphant through his exhaustion. 

The last ward lit up the tree it was carved into with iridescent veins, which then dispersed into the ground and with a final pulse of light, vanishing into the forest. 

For a moment Peter felt the preserve stretch out in front of him infinitely.

He snaps out of it when Stiles grabs his arm with an icy-cold hand and tries to haul himself up, but fails. Peter catches him before he can collapse again, listening to his slowed heartbeat. “Overdid it a little, didn’t you?”

Stiles groans and smashes his face into Peter’s chest. “I can’t find my muscles.” 

Peter shakes his head, amused. “How exactly do you plan on getting back to the house if you don’t have any muscles?”

“Carry me.”

“I’m not carrying you.”

“You know you are. Why are you arguing with me?” Stiles’ knees give out yet again and Peter sighs as he scoops him up. He’s right. It isn’t like Peter can leave him in the woods to sleep off his magic-induced exhaustion.

It isn’t terrible, having the warm weight snuggled against his chest. Peter hardly notices the distance as he treks toward home with Stiles’ gentle breath against his neck, long fingers curled loosely in his shirt.

He toes off his shoes when they get inside the front door, but decides at the last minute to put Stiles in his room, instead of on the couch. The sun will be up soon, and he needs more sleep than he’ll get once the others begin stumbling downstairs for breakfast.

Stiles sprawls out, ragdoll-limp when Peter sets him on the edge of the mattress. Peter shakes his head. He’s down for the count—he might even break his record seventeen-hour sleep marathon. 

Peeling off his muddy shoes and damp socks, Peter sets about stripping him out of his numerous layers, down to his t-shirt and boxers. His arms are cool to the touch, and Peter would worry if Stiles hadn’t mentioned the low body temperature is normal. After a moment’s thought, Peter tugs a warm henley with overly long sleeves down over his head and puts a pair of thick wool socks on his cold feet.

It’s easy to lift him again and deposit him under the blankets, tucking them in and hauling an extra from the closet to make sure he’s warm enough. 

As Peter steps back, one pale, cool hand grips his wrist, just tight enough to make him pause.

Sleepy brown eyes smile up at him, and Stiles turns his head to brush a kiss to Peter’s pulse. Peter strokes his cheek in response until his eyes close, his breathing evens out, and his grip loosens. Then Peter slips out of the room and shuts the door behind him.

He wanders down to the kitchen on autopilot and starts a pot of coffee. His wrist is tingling where Stiles’ chapped lips touched. The sky is just starting to turn pink, and he has a meeting in a few hours. So as much as he would like to go curl up with the sleepy boy in his bed, he needs to be an adult.

He mumbles a greeting to his brother, who’s always been an early riser, and takes a seat at the breakfast table, hot coffee steaming in front of him. He’s almost to the bottom of the cup when the events of the night start to sort themselves out. 

He was flirting with Stiles.

Huh. 

It’s not that strange he supposes. Stiles is fun to banter with, and flirting is basically Peter’s default setting. Any non-family member who hangs around long enough is going to end up the recipient of some teasing remarks from time to time. Back when he was Stiles’ age, he and Richard drove Talia crazy with their banter. 

Really, it was bound to happen eventually. It’s not like Peter means anything by it. No matter how mature Stiles comes across, the boy is only sixteen. He’s sharp-witted enough to know that it’s all in good fun.

Peter rubs at the spot on his wrist where he can still feel the ghost of Stiles’ lips. 

It’s possible he should tone it down. Stiles is one of the very few people that Peter honestly likes. Peter would hate for him to be hurt, and it would be intolerable if it was because of something Peter did.

Peter’s probably just been spending too much time in the house with nowhere to direct his energy. He should hit up The Jungle, or go down to San Francisco for a long weekend and have some fun in the clubs there. 

He drains the last of his coffee and goes to get ready for the day, relieved he has a plan that’s not taking out his tension on his favorite packmate.

  


* * *

  


Peter staggers home much too late and dead on his feet. He’s going to worry about his haphazard parking job, and whether he dropped his coat and shoes in front of the door or if they actually made it into the hall closet, in the morning. 

He’s lost track of the number of hours he’s been awake, and the number of _dire emergencies_ he’s resolved. It’s been a shitty day and he thinks the magic last night might have taken more out of him than he realized. 

The next time Stiles wakes him up at ass-o’clock, Peter’s going to drag him into bed and pin him down until he goes back to sleep.

He’s partially out of his clothes before he even makes it to his room, shirt undone, tie dangling from his hand. When he pushes open the door, the overwhelming scent of sleepy-warm-content-Stiles smacks him in the face.

Peter pauses, temporarily flummoxed. He somehow forgot his bed was occupied. 

He probably should have thought this through sooner. Stiles said he slept seventeen hours last time he performed a difficult spell, and it’s been just barely that since Peter poured him into bed this morning.

Instead of being conveniently on one side where he was left, Stiles has gravitated to the middle of the mattress. He’s curled up at least, everything except the spiky tips of his hair hidden in the cocoon of blankets. 

Well, there’s nothing to be done about it now. Peter shucks out of the remainder of his suit and pulls on a pair of sleep pants, then stumbles to the bed. He loosens the blankets enough that he can slide under them, and sink into the glorious softness of his mattress.

Stiles murmurs sleepily when the bed dips but doesn’t wake. 

Peter’s more towards the edge than he would like, but he snags his favorite pillow and drags it under his head anyway, then settles and breathes in the mingled scent of the two of them. 

It’s good. It sends his wolf rumbling in contentment and relaxes Peter more rapidly than he thought possible. 

It’s been an exceptionally long day, and he’s nearly asleep when Stiles shifts, and a still-cool hand wraps around Peter’s outstretched wrist. 

Peter frowns muzzily at the thought of his boy being cold. 

It’s easy to pull the pliant form into the curve of his body, tucking Stiles close and dragging the blankets back up around them. 

There. Now he’ll be warm—and safe—right where Peter wants him. 

He nuzzles the back of Stiles’ neck with a hum and drops off to sleep between one breath and the next. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally a tiny step closer to Steter! For those keeping track, you'll notice this chapter is labeled as #3. That's because the last one was #2.5, seeing how Stiles didn't do any saving in that one. Now we're back adding to the tally again. 
> 
> Come hang out with me on Tumblr. [shey-elizabeth](https://shey-elizabeth.tumblr.com/) I reblog lots of Steter and occasionally rant about how hard writing is.


End file.
